


Glitches

by liaw-mostlydead (Firefly264)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Post-Sburb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:17:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2582759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firefly264/pseuds/liaw-mostlydead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s almost comical at times, the lengths they go to in order to justify the continuation of their fractured existences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glitches

It’s o͕kay.

She means everything to him. Every night means wrapping her in his arms and every morning is waking up to her early-bird breakfast, and he holds her from behind and presses real kisses to the back of her neck as she scrambles eggs and fries bacon.

It’s ̶har͛d someͦt̔͏i᷀mes.

He has a beating heart and eyes and hands, and everything he could ever have wanted if he could have a chance at existing. Somewhere along the way he did something right (or at least not entirely wrong), and he makes sure to part his bleach white hair on the left to distinguish himself from the Other.

He runs his fingers through her hair and she pecks him on the cheek, one hand resting on his rising-falling chest.

He feels detached, sometimes. Robotic. Distant and unfeeling and entirely removed from a life that isn’t his, shouldn’t be his. He’s a tin man, a hollow shell, coded and rewritten into an ill-fitting mockery of reality.

She draws him back in with soft words and hot tea and long nights curled up watching old black and white comedies, and he resets again.

I̱ṫ ̸a̓l̆mͩo᷁s͘t̥ ͯw̾o̱r᷃k͗s̜

She bakes when she’s upset. It’s a funny little quirk of hers. There’s a constant flow of brownies and cupcakes and sugar cookies, and she’ll stay mixing and icing until she’s covered in flour and there’s somehow frosting on her glasses. She has a thousand different recipes that she knows off by heart (and there’s never a box mix in the house, never ever).

She has little scars on her temples and the corner of one eye, glitching tears in her that threatens to rip her apart from the inside out. When she sleeps, it’s restless; her breath comes in gasps and her hands make fists in the sheets.

She shatters sometimes, and it hurts, having to pin her as she thrashes and screams, words that aren’t her own spilling from her lips. She shuts down, and it’s almost worse, having to hold her tight enough that she can feel it through the pilot lines running behind her eyes and hoping she comes back to him again.

Ịͨ̏t̃̓̈’᷄̒͞s̿ͣ̇ ᷃͑ͤf̤͎ͦa᷅̏᷅l̜̘᷈l̺͚̈́i̤̥̹n̟̐̓g͙ͪͭ ̻̰̽a̴̢̖p̯̔ͮa̟̯̟r͇͛͜t̡ͭ͞.̎͛̍

He’s not real. She’s been overwritten. It’s almost comical at times, the lengths they go to in order to justify the continuation of their fractured existences. It’s broken glass and rusted metal, and adding salt instead of sugar. They’re made of mistakes and accidents and nonsensical resolutions.

It’s a mechanical boy’s heart and a girl in a binary code dress, spinning endless spirographs around an imaginary happy ending.


End file.
